The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(54)

“He is. But…” Sandy looked away.

“You think it might affect him badly, like it did you.” Being fettered in iron had soothed Sandy’s fits at first, but had only made them worse in the end. Though the noxious atmosphere of Bedlam could hardly have helped. “That was different. You and I were… are… incomplete souls. Broken.”

“Perhaps.”

The front of the cavalcade had reached the palace gates and was slowing down as everyone shuffled back into line. Mal kept a close eye on his brother, not wanting to get into an argument with any of the more senior courtiers about precedence, but Sandy had withdrawn into himself and didn’t speak again until they had passed through the gates.

“I wish people wouldn’t stare at us.”

To either side, the grounds had been laid out in elaborate knot gardens. At this time of day they were empty but for the gardeners, who had left off clipping the box hedges and deadheading the roses to kneel as the prince rode past.

“Everyone used to stare when we were boys. Don’t you remember?”

“Some of it, now and then. Mostly in dreams. But Kiiren said I had enough bad memories to deal with, without digging for more.”

“Some say it is better to flush them out, like lancing a boil.”

“Would you cut out a scar and expect it to heal more cleanly the second time?”

Mal rolled his left shoulder self-consciously, feeling the pull of scarred flesh above his collarbone. Another trophy of their escape from Ferrymead House. “Perhaps not.”

At the main entrance they all dismounted and an army of stable-boys ran out to take their horses. Prince Robert, near the head of the line, had already disappeared into the palace, leaving his entourage to mill around in confusion. Mal took Sandy by the elbow and led him towards the nearest door.

“Let’s see if we can find Coby and Kit ourselves,” he said. “I know they have apartments in the north wing, on one of the upper floors.”



Coby was not in her apartments, and Kit was asleep, so Mal left Sandy with him and went off in search of his wife. This was only the second time he had been to Richmond Palace, and he hoped he remembered the way to the royal presence chamber. The previous time he had been quaking in his boots, summoned in haste after his return from Venice to report to the Prince of Wales. A nerve-racking ride through the countryside under close escort, only to have to cool his heels for hours in an antechamber until Robert returned from the hunt. And then to learn that not only did the prince not intend to punish the twins for their various misdemeanours, but wished to knight Mal for his services to the crown.

The guards straightened their backs as he approached the double doors at the top of the stairs though more, he suspected, to try and intimidate him than out of respect. He walked straight past them without so much as a glance either side, through the antechamber – empty but for a maid rebuilding the fire – and paused at the doorway, where he was announced by a startled herald.

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn, of Rushdale!”

Mal stepped into the presence chamber, quickly taking in the princess seated at her embroidery frame, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. His eyes caught Coby’s for an instant, and his heart quickened. He thought he saw an answering blush rise from her collar, but courtesy drew his eyes back to the princess. There was no sign of Robert or the other male courtiers; no doubt they were washing off the dust of the road and slaking their thirsts. Mal bowed, catching sight of his own scuffed and begrimed boots, and wished he had thought to do the same.

“Your Highness.”

“Master Catlyn. How good of you to come and see me so promptly on your arrival.”

“The court is much duller for the absence of its brightest jewel,” he replied. The formulaic praise was sour on his tongue, but the middle-aged princess smiled nonetheless.

“Sit with us a while, sir. We were just enjoying a recital by my newest treasure, a castrato all the way from Italy.”

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

A servant brought forward a stool, and he settled down. His position was frustratingly far from his wife, but since she sat on the other side of the throne, they could exchange a glance or two without his having to turn his back on the princess. It would have to suffice for now.

A Dutch harpsichord had been placed on a table, and two figures stood by it: a woman at the keyboard, and a man by her side. More than that, he could not make out for the bright sunlight streaming in through the enormous windows that occupied almost the entire far wall. The lady at the harpsichord began to play, and a few bars later her companion joined in, singing a countermelody with words in Italian. A chill ran down Mal’s spine. That voice. An image rose in his mind, of a darkened garden lit by glass lamps hanging from the trees, and a beautiful woman in an ivory silk half-mask, playing a lute. Olivia dalle Boccole. It was all he could do not to leap to his feet and denounce her on the spot, but a glance at Coby revealed that she was completely unaware of the danger. Perhaps he was mistaken. The singer was a eunuch, so of course his voice was high like a woman’s, and he was singing in Olivia’s native tongue, so of course he sounded a little like her. Mal forced himself to breathe slowly. Sandy’s anxiety at visiting the neighbourhood of their former torment was catching.

When the song ended all the ladies clapped. Mal joined in belatedly, his hands still so tense they scarcely felt like his own.